


You can trust me

by Smoke_Wisp



Series: What the Heart Wants [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Foster Care, Friendship, Galaxy Garrison, Gen, Medication, Mental Health Issues, NEJB, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoke_Wisp/pseuds/Smoke_Wisp
Summary: “And now,” said Senior Cadet Mattu, cutting through the chatter, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Drum roll, please,” several cadets obliged by beating on the table, “Takashi Shirogane, golden boy extraordinaire, will be spending his first enlistment as …”As graduation day nears, Keith worries that his close friendship with Shiro will fade with Shiro’s new assignment. A mistake by Keith threatens to reveal a dark episode from his past. What will Shiro say when he learns the whole truth?





	You can trust me

“And it looks like Cadet Johnson is going to … the moon.” The table erupted into cheers, stamps, and clinking of plastic glasses filled with beer, or, in Keith’s case, water. Derrick Mattu waited a moment for quiet before continuing, “Luna Base 1, a nine-month rotation.” 

It was a choice assignment for a pilot and Johnson had a great smile plastered on her face while her fiancée, Doug, who worked groundside in stress test engineering smiled on with a mix of pride and wistfulness.

Officially, Johnson and the other senior cadets gathered at the table weren’t supposed to know their first assignments until after their graduations ceremony next week, but Mattu had somehow gotten his hands on a spreadsheet with the pilot class assignments and he was doling out that information like it was an award ceremony. In addition to Doug, Keith and a handful of other non-graduating students had been invited, although Keith was the only first-year.

As always, he felt odd hanging out with Shiro’s other friends. He was never sure how he fit in with the group and suspected that they were equally confused by his and Shiro’s relationship. Shiro’s lack of a steady girlfriend – he claimed to be too focused on classes and training – coupled with Keith’s orientation – discreet, but not in the closet – could lead to certain speculations. Incorrect speculations. Shiro was most certainly straight; they were regular sparring partners and there were things that you couldn’t hide when you were perfecting Brazilian Jujitsu moves. 

Recently Shiro let it slip, intentionally Keith suspected, that he’d been sneaking Keith into the simulator. Several of group made the connection to the mysterious “Akira” who’d been climbing the ranks. The reveal had raised his cachet with the group and justified his closeness with Shiro who naturally would be mentoring the next upcoming hotshot pilot. And, maybe that was all it was. 

Shiro’s abilities had long outpaced his classmates, and several of the instructors’. Keith’s unconventional instincts in the stimulator, but also in sparring and video gaming, presented a rare challenge. But once Shiro had graduated, once he was flying real missions with experienced pilots, would he have the need, much less the time, for someone like Keith?

“And now,” said Mattu, cutting through the chatter, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Drum roll, please,” several cadets obliged by beating on the table, “Takashi Shirogane, golden boy extraordinaire, will be spending his first enlistment as a grade 1 pilot for the orbital defense system.” Loud whoops and cheers drowned out the sports ball game playing on the mounted TVs. 

Cadet Ling Mie, who was going to be assigned to a ground crew researching deep space exploration, poured Keith a beer so he could join the others in raising a toast to Shiro. He considered the amber liquid.

Besides him, Shiro gave him a nudge and a wink “Don’t worry, I’m turning a blind eye tonight.” 

He was wearing a massive grin. ODS had been his dream assignment. The satellites were still under construction and while most of the missions were cargo grade, it had the heaviest flight schedule and would give Shiro extensive takeoff and low orbital flight experience.

It would also mean frequent time in space and infrequent communications. There was no texting in space. Keith had known this was coming, but still …

He took a determined swig from his glass. The beer was a mix of bitter and nutty, which was new to Keith. Despite his otherwise honestly earned reputation, this was his first time drinking. The alcohol burned as it went down, which he supposed people got used to.

“Way to go Shiro,” said Johnson, “I’ve heard that during layovers, they have the pilots run mock offensives to test out the systems defenses. You’re going to be on the short list for the outer orbit exploration missions coming up in the next few years.”

“I’ll still need low G/low atmosphere practice, which you’ll get a ton of up on Moonbase,” said Shiro. 

“Yeah, and I’m going to be living on another planet, how crazy is that?” She raised her glass and everyone joined her with another drink.

“Shiro won’t be spending that much more time on terra firma, “said Mattu, “missions may be limited to a week, but they fly them monthly.”

“But ODS ground support is based here at the Garrison,” said Shiro, “so I’ll still be around.”

As he spoke, he made eye contact with Keith, who, uncertain what his expression looked like, took another deep drink. The burning was replaced by a numbing sensation, maybe the alcohol was kicking in. Maybe the buzz would help him be genuinely happy for Shiro.

Shiro had earned this and he deserved to bask in the glow. Actually, he was glowing. There was something like a halo of light around him. 

Keith squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. There was a circle around Shiro’s head, around everyone he focused on. The lights and flat screens had full rainbows. Keith’s eyes were acting funny and he felt slightly nauseous. Wow, he really did have no alcohol tolerance.

He switched back to water and tried to follow the conversation but the music was too loud and there was a fuzzy background hum. Things were unnaturally loud and it was giving him a headache.

“Keith, you feeling okay?” asked Shiro.

“I’m okay,” he lied, “I just need to use the restroom.”

He squeezed out of this seat. His foot slipped once, but he recovered. The bathroom was quieter but the lights were harsher and he had to grasp the sink to stay upright. The last thing Keith saw was his own reflection, his face pale and sweaty. The last thing he thought was, oh no, not again. And then everything went grey.

***

Shiro noticed Keith almost trip as he walked away from the table. Which, given what he knew of Keith’s reflexes, didn’t happen. He should have been watching how much Keith had been drinking. But his glass was still half filled, had someone topped it off?

Besides him Johnson and her finance were talking the effects of low g and whether her wedding dress would still fit when she got back. They barely noticed when Shiro excused himself to go after his friend.

“Keith,” he said as he entered, only to see a figure lying curled up on the floor. “Keith!”

“I’m- it’s-“ Keith got out before curling up tighter. Safety training kicked in as Shiro felt Keith’s forehead, normal, and checked his eyes, pinpoints and unfocused. Shiro reached for his cell phone, only to realize it was back at the table. While he was debating running back to get it, or calling out for help, Keith arched his back and began to shake. Not shake, more like vibrate. 

“Somebody help,” Shiro shouted, but his attention was on Keith, trying to keep his head from slamming against the wall. It was over quick, barely 10 seconds. Thankfully, Keith, while still gasping for breath, was focusing again.

“Keith,” said Shiro, “you had a seizure. I’m going to grab my phone to call for an ambulance.”

Keith’s hand shot out and grabbed Shiro’s with serious strength. “No!” he said clearly, and then in a pleading tone, “Please, please don’t. Just get me home.”

In the past year, Shiro had noticed some things about Keith. He didn’t speak about his past. He rarely apologized. He never asked for anything.

“Please,” Keith repeated, a desperate look in his eyes.

“Okay,” agreed Shiro, “can you stand?”

Keith nodded and, through gritted teeth, got to his feet. Shiro took him out through the bar’s back door. It was a less direct route to the military jeep they’d borrowed for the night, but if his friends saw Keith in this state, there’d be questions. Whatever was going on, Shiro suspected Keith didn’t want that.

After he’d gotten Keith buckled in, he went back to the table and collected his cell and jacket.

“I’m afraid we got our underage classmate drunk,” he told them, “I’m going to get him back to his room so no one’s the wiser.”

Keith threw up once on the drive back, but seemed to be doing much better when they arrived at the Garrison. He could walk unassisted and the color had returned to his face. Still he was breathing heavily by the time they arrived at the room. Shiro half expected him to collapse in bed, but Keith simply sat and motioned to the opposite bed.

“My roommate’s gone for the weekend,” he said. 

There was a defensive crouch to his shoulders and Shiro chose his words carefully. “Keith, this isn’t a normal reaction to beer. You had a seizure back there. Are you sure we can’t contact a doctor-“

“We can’t tell anyone,” said Keith, softly but insistent, “they’ll never let me fly if I have that on my record. I won’t let it happen again.”

The sequential realizations hit hard and fast. Keith was right, he wouldn’t be allowed to pilot a cargo ship, much less fly a mission if he was epileptic. But Shiro’s sympathy was tempered by a sickening dread, his friend would disregard the safety of passengers and crew for his own benefit.

Shiro’s shock and revulsion must have shown.

“No, it’s not like that!” protested Keith.

“You’ve had seizures before?” Shiro asked, hoping he was misinterpreting the situation.

“Never! But I’ve had … stuff,” with the last word, Keith’s voice dropped to almost a whisper, “they said it wasn’t me, it was a weird reaction to the meds. My doctor talked to the Garrison. They gave me a pass just so long as nothing showed up on the physicals. And I passed, so they said it would be okay. It had to be the beer. I’ve never had alcohol before. If I don’t drink it will be okay. I promise …”

Keith’s ramble faded, leaving Shiro more confused. “What kind of stuff?” he asked.

Keith said nothing. He knelt on the ground and began digging under his bed. Shiro saw a metal box that Keith unlocked. There were papers, at least on the top, and Keith handed him a set of stapled glossy pages that appeared to have been torn out of a magazine.

“Dr. Magory said he’d never seen anything like it, that’s why they wrote it up.”

Shiro considered the paper. 

> The NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL of MEDICINCE  
>  CORREPSONDENCE
> 
> To the Editor
> 
> At this year’s Child, Adolescent, and Young Adult Mental Health Conference, Dr. Sheldow and her colleagues presented evidence for the widespread over-prescription of psychotropic and psychotic drugs in the vulnerable population of youths under state supervision in foster care homes, residential group homes and inpatient units. The authors demonstrated how miscommunication, lack of cognitive behavioral therapy, and unqualified caregiver’s subjective opinions can lead to the misidentification of adverse drug side effects, ascribing mental disorders to behaviors caused by previously prescribed medications. The authors advocated for a standard protocol to be utilized in annual health checkups to identify individuals who had been incorrectly medicated.
> 
> While we agree that such a protocol could help in the identification of the majority of cases, we caution a one-approach-fits-all solution as multiple drug interactions, and those given off-label to an adolescent, may result in non-standard psychological manifestations. The age, mental development state, and genetic makeup of the patient might further contribute to unique reactions.
> 
> At our facility, we recently admitted one such individual -- a 12-year-old diabetic male whose medical records included diagnoses for attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), attachment disorder, conduct disorder, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia disorder. At the time he entered our care, he was in a near catatonic state, suffering from neologistic paraphasia bordering on glossolalia.

“Neo-logic-tic? Gloss-o-la-lee-a” Shiro knew Keith had been in foster care, but he wasn’t sure what the paper was getting at.

“I was babbling nonstop in some made up language,” said Keith.

“Wait, this 12-year-old was you?” Keith nodded. Shiro went back and reread the description. “You’re not diabetic.” Or schizophrenic.

“I was overweight,” said Keith, “140 pounds.” It seemed impossible, but Keith was serious. Shiro kept reading.

> The patient was on a regimen of insulin, lithium, Depakote, Risperdal, Clonidine, and Concerta, several at adult dosages. Three days previously, he had been admitted to the emergency room after suffering from concurrent cardiac arrest suspected to be caused by a mistake in dosage. Immediate resuscitations after each heart failure meant that the patient’s brain was not deprived of oxygen, however even after stabilizing, he failed to regain consciousness. 
> 
> Prior to the heart attack, the various medications were thought to have caused or contributed to side effects of weight gain, lethargy, insomnia, Akathisia, depression, headaches, muscle spasms and aphasia. However on closer examinations of the patient’s medical records, we noted that the onset of symptoms did not correspond to known side effects for the specific medications. In fact, the patient’s recorded responses to each medication seemed less likely to alieve the condition being treated, and more likely to instigate the next diagnosis. 
> 
> Had the patient been under the care of a single primary doctor or team, this pattern might have been detected. However, we feel it was missed owing to the number of residences and facilities the patient passed through from the time that he entered the foster care system at the age of eight until he came under our care. 
> 
> Because it seemed likely that the patient’s current state and at least some of his afflictions could have resulted from adverse drug interactions, we made the medical decision to sedate him and discontinue all medication save for the insulin. After a week, in which the various drugs were thought to had cleared his system, he was weaned from the sedative.
> 
> Upon awakening, the patient was alert, able to communicate and move about. Magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), brain computed tomography (CT), electroencephalogram (EEG), metabolic and neurological tests all returned normal results. Furthermore, standard psychological and psychiatric tests and evaluations found no evidence of past conditions or psychosis. In fact, after a month of inpatient observation, no developmental delays or psychological conditions were observed and we concluded that environmental conditions from drug interactions were the cause of previous diagnosis. It is possible that an underlying genetic cause may have also contributed to the unique constellation of symptoms, neuroses and psychoses. Perhaps if previous medication had been stopped before new prescriptions had been added, the patient may have never been placed in such a life-threatening state, nor suffered from the mental afflictions in his medical history.
> 
> Based on this particular case, and the evidence presented by our colleagues on the widespread over-prescription of medicines to children in the foster care system, we argue not only for a standard protocol for assessment and prescription, but assigning any child receiving three or more psychotropic or more than one psychotic medication to a state certified psychiatrist to review the case and determine that the medications are valid and not a result of miscommunications.
> 
> While medication can greatly help those who need it, over-prescription can carry its own dangers.
> 
> Stanly Magory, M.D.

When he finished, Shiro re-read the article to be sure he understood – it was more jargon heavy than his rocket science textbook, and far more unnerving. “You almost died, Keith.”

Keith shrugged, “I don’t remember much from that time.” 

He looked both tense and exhausted at the same time. His body needed rest, probably sleep, of that Shiro was sure. But he suspected Keith had shown him the article, had opened up about his past, for more reasons than just to buy Shiro’s silence on the seizure.

“What do you remember?” Keith gave him a measured look. “I won’t tell anyone, not about your alcohol reaction, not about any of this. I just want to understand.” Keith opened his mouth, but no words came out. “You can trust me.” That did it, Keith nodded and began to speak.

***

He’d never told this story before, not even to himself. Maybe it was Shiro’s words, or the kind look he was giving Keith, or simply because the alcohol had burnt through his usually robust defenses. Whatever it was, the words flowed easily. 

> I was eight when they put me on my first prescription. 
> 
> It was at my first placement, a foster home. The family had their own biological child a few years younger than me and a couple of teenage foster kids. One of them, a middle schooler named Cory, took Ritalin for his ADHD. He said the medication made a big difference. Before his diagnosis, Cory had been held back a grade, partly because he kept interrupting his teachers and starting fights. I was having a hard time keeping still in class – my dad had homeschooled me so I wasn’t used to sitting at a desk all day. Anyway, Tanya, my foster mom, thought medication might help me control my energy. My social worker thought so too.
> 
> I took my first pill on a Saturday and fell asleep until Sunday night. The doctor said that was an unusual reaction and dropped my dosage. It seemed to work, at least I didn’t feel so restless. 
> 
> The biggest change was in my mood. Before I started taking the pills, I was sad all the time, about losing my dad and our house and my dogs. After I took Ritalin, all that just didn’t bother me. When I thought about it, it was just a memory, almost like it had happened to someone else. I guess I was happier. Oh, and Tanya’s cooking stopped tasting so bad – it was so bland, worse than the stuff they serve here in the cafeteria. I put on like 30 pounds which pleased Tanya. 
> 
> But then she had her baby, a girl, Mimi I think her name was. Mimi was born with a heart condition and Tanya and her husband, Jay, decided they couldn’t handle three foster kids on top of that. I’d been there the shortest time, so I was the one to leave. I ended up in a residential group home while the county looked for a family in the area.
> 
> The group home had a staff psychologist and he said I wasn’t making friends or interacting with the staff enough. He figured I had attachment disorder and perhaps some depression. I remember him saying that if we didn’t nip this in the bud, I wouldn’t make a good impression on my next foster parents.
> 
> So, they switched me to Concerta which he said should help with the ADHD and depression. I didn’t notice much of a difference, except that my mouth was always dry and I started talking too loud, at least that’s what my roommates kept complaining about.
> 
> Maybe a week after they changed my medication, Paul and Maria took me in. They lived on a ranch out in the country. It was a bit like my old home, but nicer with horses and pets and a zip line. I didn’t like it. 
> 
> I didn’t like Paul either. He saw himself as some sort of drill sergeant that would break you down and rebuild you into something better. He used to call me his toughest case and I guess I took that as a challenge.
> 
> I remember feeling angry all the time, Dr. Magory thought it might have been the Concerta. I know I’ve got a temper, but back then, I really couldn’t control it. I lashed out and sulked a lot. I’d talk back, sometimes shout, slam the door, break stuff. Then Paul would discipline me, confiscate my stuff, take away some privileges or ground me in my room. Strangely, I kind of liked being punished, it was only then that I’d felt like I had some control.
> 
> I was an awful person back then. I knew it at the time, I just … didn’t care. I was horrible to Maria, the other foster kids, my teachers, my classmates. I’d tease this boy in my class who used to wear pink and purple, and outright bully him when I realized he wasn’t telling anyone. I was ten by then, and I suppose I picked on him because I suspected I was gay. I wrote him an apology letter once as part of therapy exercise, but I don’t remember his name, so I couldn’t send it to him. 
> 
> Paul thought I just needed discipline and structure to straighten me out but Maria took me to a psychiatrist who upped my meds to match my body weight. My tantrums got worse and Paul would have to physically hold me down. But he also liked to spar with me and I picked up more than he realized. He had a pretty effective sleeper hold. One day when he tried, I twisted out, threw him against the wall, and ran away. They found me the next day, I didn’t have any place to go and was just hiding out at a nature center.
> 
> My social worker staged an intervention. They enrolled me in this facility where most of the kids were on suicide watch and the doors were always locked. The doctor put me on Clonidine for conduct disorder. At first, it seemed to work. I managed to have a civil, non-confrontational conversation with Paul and Maria and they even said they were willing to give me another chance provided I completed a non-violence program.
> 
> One morning I woke up and couldn’t sit still. I remember trying to run up the walls. I’d leap against them again and again seeing how high up I could get. And, this part I don’t remember, the staff said I was talking a mile a minute. I’d babble on until I ran out of breath, take a big gulp of air, and keep talking. I was like that for two days. They were on the point of sedating me when I kind of deflated on my own.
> 
> That’s when they labeled me with bipolar disorder. It was the Clodine, acting as an anti-depressant, that kicked me into a manic phase. They put me on lithium and I stabilized, I guess. At least stopped throwing myself against walls.
> 
> But now it took me hours to fall asleep and it never felt like I fully woke up. I stopped exercising, that’s when I really gained weight. When I hit 130 pounds I needed to start taking insulin. My muscles hurt, I got these headaches and, this was the worst, I started wetting the bed. I wasn’t hyperactive, but I could only really pay attention to someone if they were talking directly to me. They added Depakote and that helped with the focusing. It gave everything this uncanny tunnel vision, like I was watching the world from far away. Like my body was a puppet I was controlling, not a part of me.
> 
> They decided I needed more than a foster home could provide so they sent me to Phoenix house. Only it was less of a house and more like converted business building. They ran a school and, despite the drugs, or maybe because of them, I did well enough not to have to repeat sixth grade. And I taught myself to play the piano, I’m not melodic, but I can sight read.
> 
> I remember almost nothing from that year, at least nothing that makes sense. I did homework and took tests, learned music, went out on organized field trips but it’s all fragmented.
> 
> I once ran into a former staffer. She said she used to call me Goofy, that I was obsessed with aliens and I used to do this thing where I’d mix up my verbs and nouns and sound like Yoda. I used to tell her I was in contact with this alien who needed help hiding his spaceship from Emperor Palpatine.
> 
> Only as time went on, the silly stories started to sound more like hallucinations and voices. That must have been when I earned the schizophrenic diagnosis and the Risperdal prescription. They kept giving me the pills. I got them three times a day, different colors, shapes, and numbers each time. I didn’t keep track and apparently they didn’t either. 
> 
> Phoenix’s staff never figured out exactly what they gave me that morning, but fifteen minutes after I took my pills, I fell face down into my cereal bowl. There was a defibrillator at the house and they got my heart started before the paramedics showed up. But it stopped again in the ambulance, and again when they got me to the ER. 
> 
> There was a huge mess when Dr. Magory proposed cutting off my meds and they had a court hearing in front of a judge because I was a ward of the state with no next of kin.
> 
> I woke up in a hospital bed and watched the sunlight catch floating specks of dust. It was beautiful and my room was wonderfully quiet save for the beeping monitor. My brain was clear and alert for the first time I could remember, and if felt so right. It was like I was awakening from a long sleep and all the crazy things that had happened were just random fragments from a dream.
> 
> The nurse was surprised to see me up so quickly. My body cleared the sedative faster than they’d predicted. They tested me for, well, pretty much everything – residual drugs, hormone levels, heart rate, brain scans, personality and cognitive responses. It all came out normal. They never found anything to explain my behavior or drug responses. 
> 
> Dr. Magory wrote in my file that I wasn’t to be given medication for any conditions short of life threatening. They kept me on insulin until a growth spurt got me to a better BMI – I’ve got a fast metabolism when it’s not screwed up by drugs. And since I don’t really get sick, I’ve had no trouble keeping clean, not even aspirin or caffeine. Mostly I just forget I have this weird reaction.

“That’s why I made the mistake with the alcohol. I won’t be stupid like that again.” Keith searched Shiro’s expression for some clue to what he was thinking. Shiro said he wouldn’t hold Keith’s messed up biology against him, but what Shiro thought of him personally wasn’t clear.

“When they released you from the hospital, did you go back to the foster family, Paul and Maria?” Shiro asked.

“No, they said they were considering, but it never worked out. I went back to Phoenix for a year and then to a couple of smaller group homes where I could attend high school, but I wasn’t a good fit for a family. Schizo bipolars aren’t popular with potential foster parents.”

“But, didn’t this doctor invalidate those diagnoses?”

“It’s not like a juvenile record,” Keith shrugged, “And there are so many less messed up kids in the system. Besides, I don’t think I’m family material. I don’t get close to people.”

“That’s not true, Keith. You’re one of my closest friends here,” Shiro spoke like it was the obvious most natural thing to say. Keith didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to wreck the moment. “With my graduating and flying to the defense system, some things are going to change. But our friendship won’t, I promise.”

Keith nodded and gave a small smile. Exhaustion from what the beer had put his body through was kicking in and he was feeling drained. Shiro must have sensed it. “Get some sleep, Keith.”

Shiro was the last thing he saw as he fell asleep. And when Keith awoke in the morning, his friend was still there.

**Author's Note:**

> The situation described was inspired by this bit of [investigative reporting](http://extras.mercurynews.com/druggedkids/) by the San Jose Mercury News. The drugs and diagnosis are based on real stories, Keith's specific reactions were purposely different than normal.
> 
> Hope the scientific journal writing wasn't too dense. It was a guilty pleasure to write it. I've spent way too much time translating the science language of research articles to something the general public would be interested in reading, it was fun to go all academic and passive voice.


End file.
